


That May Be All I Need

by neighborhoodninja



Category: Swimming RPF
Genre: M/M, told from character pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:10:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neighborhoodninja/pseuds/neighborhoodninja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan and Michael, purely on accident, end up falling in love with each other all over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That May Be All I Need

**Author's Note:**

> _But things just get so crazy, living life gets hard to do_   
> _Sunday morning, rain is falling, and I'm calling out to you_   
> _Singin' someday, it'll bring me back to you_   
> _Find a way to bring myself back home to you._

_Ryan_

 

The first thing I notice when I get home from the pool is that I have a new voicemail on my home phone.

I only know one person in the entire fucking world who would be so persistent as to call my cell, then my home, and, in the event that I didn't pick up, leave a message. Usually, I would have collapsed from the effort of making a call, but not this person.

So, like an idiot, I press the "listen" button and Michael's voice is broadcasted toward me. 

"Hey, Ryan, it's me. You wouldn't pick up. I was wondering if you wanted to come to my…" Michael pauses, like he's thinking something through. "boyfriend's sister's boyfriend's engagement party. It's three days in Berkeley from this Saturday. I'm not going to know anyone there except Jake, so yeah. Bye."

I feel a smile creep onto my face and tell myself that I'll call Michael back tonight, because it's been a while since I've been to California. 

Maybe three days with the guy I used to love isn't the most ideal situation, but still, it's sunny and warm and it's fucking Berkeley.

We dated from August of 2005 to August of 2012. If I think hard enough, I can still remember the day we broke up.

It wasn't pretty, but no one screamed and no one got violent. And we healed. In October, Michael called and we talked.

Michael said that we'd still be friends, and I said that that would be fine.

It is fine. I don't mind.

But sometimes, and yeah, I'll admit this, I miss what would happen to my chest, how it would feel like a light was suddenly switched on, when Michael was near me. It's like Michael took something with him when he left, and I've been searching and searching, but I haven't been able to find it, wherever Michael hid it. The girls I take home sure as hell don't know where it is, or even what it is. I don't necessarily feel robbed, I just feel incomplete.

So I start packing.

 

 

When I get off the plane, sunglasses slid down over the bridge of my very straight and very perfect nose, it's the _shininess_ of everything that hits me first.

As I'm standing there like an idiot, gawking at my surroundings, even though it's just California and I've been here a bajillion times, I hear my name from across the terminal. 

"Ryan!"

I don't even have to look up to know who he is, where he is, what he's wearing. The slight question mark at the end is because he's wearing those Chucks that are a half-size too small, and since he's craning his neck and standing on his toes above the crowd, his heel is pinched and his voice goes up. 

Even though the fact that I know this is fucking creepy, I look fifty feet to my right and there he is, Michael, in his black Chucks, the low-tops that his legs can still pull off even though he's not thirteen, and his "stylish and trendy" (as he puts it) pale blue shorts, and a thin long-sleeve, the expensive cotton of which I can practically taste. 

I move my eyes up to his face and he's not wearing sunnies, like a moron, because everyone around him has suddenly realized that yes, they are standing next to Michael Phelps. Miraculously, his face is shaved. 

There's that familiar smile, and even though my chest should _pound so hard my shirt moves_ or my _breathing get shallow and quick_ when I see it, that doesn't happen. Because we are resolutely and never-endingly each other's exes. Exes don't start having heart palpitations over each others' smiles. 

But I smile back, because I'm Ryan Steven Lochte and I'm a fucking gentleman, and yeah, I'm glad to see him. 

"I missed you, you little shit." I say, because suddenly he's close to me and I'm pulling him in. "Since when do you live under a rock?"

"My phone broke, I told you." I can hear that he's still grinning. "Because SOMEONE'S dog decided it was his new Milk-Bone." He pulls away and raises an eyebrow, and I want to tell him that he looks so fucking cute when he does that.

"Aw, c'mon. Carter wuvs you." I say, making a pucker-y face, mostly because it makes my cheekbones stand out, therefore, I am more attractive.

But I have to catch myself at this. Since I'm his ex, I can't be making myself attractive. 

And since Michael's moved on and found someone named Jake Anderson to replace me, things would get awkward if we suddenly found each other hot again. Jake probably wouldn't take things too well. 

Not that I'm suggesting that would happen, because it won't, obviously.

"Wrong. But let's get to the car, come on, you gotta meet her."

I really don't care about his boyfriend's sister, but I go along, mainly because she's supposed to be the reason I came. I don't even know why Michael invited me, really. But it's too late.

We chat about Michael's newfound hipsterness as we make our way to Jake's car, which Michael says is waiting for us outside the airport. Michael starts ranting and raving about his tumblr, which is incognito, but he loves anyway. I simply don't get the point of that website besides the porn and Assassin's Creed fandoms, but Michael's gotten himself immersed in Parks and Recreation, Game of Thrones, and to my secondhand shame, Homestuck. He's turning into something that's not even a hipster, just a geek. 

I smile, almost against my will, because I knew his inner stan would surface one day. After twenty-eight years, it's finally blossoming. 

The thing Michael didn't tell me was that, along with Jake's car, is Jake himself. So I open the backseat door and I see this handsome (even though I fucking loathe that word, it's the only one that can describe him) guy sitting behind the wheel and I'm about to tell Michael he's going to get sexually assaulted when the guy touches his hand, but then they kiss and something in my throat drops all the way down and doesn't stop because I have just figured it out. 

"Ryan, this is Jake. Jake, this is Ryan. Be nice to each other." Michael says, with that smile on his face, and Jake turns around. 

His eyes are blue like mine, but I think mine are prettier, to be honest. Whatever. Maybe Michael's just got a thing for that color. His hair is blond, way blonder than mine (which the media likes to call blond but that's false), and I want to think that it makes him look dumb, but it doesn't. Just attractive, in a sun-starved Scandinavian sort of way. He's bigger than I am, though, maybe an inch or two taller and thicker. At least I won't feel fat, which I never do, because it's all muscle and I don't give a fuck what anyone says.

"Hey, Ryan! Wow, I can't believe I'm meeting you." Jake says in this deep voice, even deeper than Michael's, and he extends his hand. I shake it. There's no reason for me to have a grudge against this guy yet. 

"Ha. Nice to meet you, Jake." I smile back. 

Jake starts the engine and an awkward silence settles over the car, then Jake asks me something about swimming, because his niece is interested in getting started, and of course I have to launch into the requirements and my input and the ideal situation and all that shit.

When we get to his sister's California mansion, the garage of which is approximately the size of Miami, he leans across and turns Michael's head so they can kiss. "MP, baby, why don't you show Ryan around while I unload our stuff?"

Now, I know exes are supposed to still be kind of protective of their old boyfriends or girlfriends, but this surge of something that makes me want to punch Jake in his assbutt face just looms up and I have to, like, grip my leg just to keep it down. On top of the thing, a stupid thought pops into my head that sounds like "I called him that first" but that's bullshit and I need myself to shut up.  
I have no idea what the fuck it is, but it's going to go down and stay down. 

"C'mon, MPeezy. Let's get my junk outta the trunk."

I haven't called him MPeezy in two years. I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing.

"Okay then, Doggy." Michael deadpans, leaning back and grinning. "You wanted a tour, I'm delivering."

 

 

After I'm showed around the ridiculously large hunk of property, which is complete with legit footmen strolling and offering drinks, too many fountains and sculptures to count, extra guesthouses scattered here and there, three pools, five jacuzzis, two basketball and tennis courts, a baseball triangle, a bowling alley, a forest at the back, a small mountain, and a few exotic animals roaming around, Michael and I head inside for food, the love of our lives.

I meet Jake's sister, who seems like, honestly, a bubblehead, but nice enough to get along with. She gushes about her fiancé, who popped the question a couple weeks before, and they plan to get married within a month. I pretend to actually care.

No one at the party actually knows me (except Michael) and I don't know anyone (except Michael,) so I kind of just float around by his side and smile. 

At one point, Michael ditches me for food, a recurring pattern in our relationship, and I just chill against a Roman-style column and mess with my phone. There's a soft throat-clear from next to me, and I glance over to see Jake.

"Hey, Ryan." He smiles. "Is this just as awkward for me as it is for you?"

I laugh. "Got that right. I don't know anyone here."

"I mean, I've always been close to my sister…" He sighs. "But her fiancé's friends I can't say I find interesting."

I laugh again. "No offense, but the dude's kind of a prick." And he is. He didn't really seem to notice I was holding out my hand when I met him, and that it's normal to shake it. 

"I know. Ugh."

There's a stretch of silence, then Jake clears his throat again. 

"Hey, so…I was wondering if you had any advice. About Michael and stuff."

Oh. Shit.

I want to tell Jake how we actually broke up, which was in a fight over who was better at Black Ops (but was backed by much more significant problems that surfaced in the argument), so to never be better than Michael at Black Ops. But really, the point is to never be better than Michael at anything. Or he'll get pissed.

"Wow…uh. Um."

Jake laughs and punches my shoulder lightly. "I mean, man, you don't have to if this is awkward. I was just wondering, 'cause I know you two used to…you know." 

"Well." I start, but then everything we went through comes flooding back and spews out through my mouth. "I guess…if he's sick, he's gonna expect you to make breakfast for him."

"Yeah, I…found that out the hard way."

"If you screw up even in the slightest, make sure you're able to fix it. Like, before you do something, think of all the ways you can screw up, then think of solutions to fix your screw-up, _then_ do the thing. Because he's OCD like that. If one little thing's out of place, he'll freak."

"Yeah."

"Never be better than him at something intentionally. And if you really are, hide it for your fucking life."

"Uh-huh." I'm half-expecting Jake to take this stuff down in a notebook or something, he's looking so intense. 

"And…this is sorta personal, but if he ever, like, asks you about sex, just say some cheesy shit, like you want to make love on a bed of roses or whatever. He's a fucking romantic, I swear."

"Ha! Sure."

"And…you know. Love him, I guess."

I've never been the best with explanations, or advice, or anything related to words in general, but that's the best I can do for the last one.

That's the thing about Michael. He needs to be constantly loved, or be in love, or just _something_. Maybe the reason why we broke up wasn't that I was better at Black Ops, but that I was too busy to love him, or whatever excuse I can come up with. But we broke up, it happened, and it's done.

"Thanks a lot, man. I really appreciate it." Jake blushes a little, looking around, then he leans closer. "Because, you know, I was thinking…I might be asking him The Big Question sometime. I don't know."

Oh.

"Um, wow. Great. That's awesome, man."

This time, I seriously can't lie to myself that something in the upper half of my torso feels like it exploded. And, yeah, it kinda hurts. Really hurts. 

"I mean, you know, I'm not sure, but he's great. I really love him."

I can't stop myself. I let my eyes drift over to where Michael's standing by the buffet and chatting with some people I don't know, and I wonder if he's really moved on. He looks cute, my brain says, and I tell it to please stop, there are children here. But he does, honestly, and I can understand why Jake would want to marry him. 

"Yeah."

"I'll see you around, then, dude. Thanks for the tips."

"Sure. Good luck, man." I say, feeling a bit numb, and Jake saunters away in Michael's direction.

As he throws his white-polo-sleeved arm around Michael's shoulders, I notice that they look _good_ together.  
Michael's shoulder fits perfectly into the crook of Jake's arm. When Michael tips his head back to laugh, it doesn't awkwardly bump into Jake's, like it did with mine. 

And it makes me not angry, but sad. 

Soon enough, Michael comes back over to me and things go back to how they were Before We Broke Up. Before is alarmingly similar to After. And that makes me sad, too.

The party is officially over at eleven, and Michael hugs me at the gate, because I said I have a cab waiting. I don't. I don't really have a hotel, but eh, whatever.

"Visit me in the G-Spot, 'kay? I miss your ass." I say, grinning, and Michael laughs.

"I bet you do." He says, wiggling his eyebrows. Then he leans in. "Um, so, what did Jake say to you? Gimme the deets."

Well, thanks, Phelps, for making things even more horrible. "Ehh, you know. He just asked me for some advice on how to deal with your shit."

Michael raises an eyebrow. "And what did you tell him?"

"To tie you to the bed when you've been a naughty little boy, and go from there."

Michael really laughs at this, tipping his head back, and I notice he has a tiny hickey under his ear. Before I can stop myself, my brain supplies, _I could make a bigger one_.

"But seriously. I think…" Michael scratches at the back of his neck, something I barely notice anymore, I've seen it so often. "I think he could like, be the one, Ry, you know what I mean? Just…yeah." He blushes.

Compared to the H-bomb inside my chest from earlier, my body's having a raging supernova party. I croak out something real smart like, "Uh uh, um. Cool."

Michael smiles at me, right at me, and the force of it makes me grip the side of the conveniently placed urn. I swipe a hand through my tangly hair to look like I planned it. "I knew you'd say that, you fucking dork."

A horn honks twice from behind us, and headlights sweep over Michael's face. "Alright, I gotta get out of here. C'mere."

I let my arms wrap around Michael and I pull him in, and if I close my eyes, I can still hear the roar of the crowd and I can almost see the cameras flashing, lenses clicking, and Michael's skin is suddenly wet, and I can hear Conor screaming next to us, and we're back _there_ again. We're in Before. And I want to stay there for as long as I can.

But then Michael pulls away and everything fades. "Love ya bunches." He says, laughing softly, and then he's gone, just like that. Leaving me with whatever that phrase was supposed to imply. 

As Michael climbs into the shotgun of Jake's Mercedes, I can see their shadows crossing and kissing and being _together_ , while Michael and I are so apart, and that's when it hits me. Michael is in his After. He's fine. 

But here I am, stuck maybe forever in Before. 

Jake drives away and as Michael waves goodbye to me, I can't find it in myself to wave back. 

 

 

 

_Michael_

 

It's been a week since that party, and I still want to call him.

I don't know why. Maybe I just want to make sure he's okay, maybe I want to gossip, or maybe I just want to hear his voice, which was so fucking addicting after nearly two months' hiatus.

So when my phone rings with his caller ID of Reezy Jeah Swaggin' at the ending of World War Z, which sucks royally, hell yes I'm going to answer it. I leave Jake spluttering about following movie etiquette next to me. He can handle it. 

"Sir." I say after I've picked up, because that's just how we roll. 

"Madam." He cuts straight to the point. "I left my jacket in your car. Retrove it, please, and bring it to me."

"It's retrieve, dipshit. And no. Get it yourself."

"Just come down to Gainesville!"

"Nope." I sigh loudly into the speaker, just to piss him off, but I can hear him smiling. I've kind of learned how to hear Ryan's expressions. There's a distinct buzz when he's frowning, and when he's smiling, there's like, choirs of angels singing. Maybe I've been doing too many shrooms lately, though. "I'm on a strict no-work agenda."

"You suck, you know. You really suck."

"If we're talking about…"

"STOP. Now."

I finally relent. "Okay, fine, I'll bring your damn jacket. Just gimme a day."

"Yes, thank you, I love you, yes- "

Whoa.

Where did those words come from.

I mean, I get that sometimes they just slip out, but something in me wants to believe that they didn't just slip out. 

Okay, then, Michael. Okay.

I must be pretty deathly quiet, because Ryan says, "MPeezy?" and that brings me back to earth. 

"Yeah." Is all I can say, and Ryan clears his throat awkwardly.

"Okay, then. See you…tomorrow?"

"Sure."

"Bye."

"Ciao."

And that's it. 

He has this way of just leaving me hanging, so much that I can't sleep, I can't function normally, I can't _do_ anything for days afterward. 

I realize that my heart is going way too fast, and I take a few calming, deep, Bowman-approved breaths to try to get it to slow the fuck down, but they don't do anything. I haven't been this out of it in a long time.

That's the thing about Ryan. He's the only person I know who can do this to me. Completely usurp my control over myself with three words. 

But he shouldn't be able to do this to me anymore, not now, not this long after we broke up. 

I wait until my pulse has returned to semi-normal, then I go back inside the theater, but the credits are already going, and Jake meets me. "Who called you?"

"Just Peter. I have to do some shit for Speedo."

Why did I lie? I don't know.

"Oh, okay, babe. C'mon, let's get food. I'm starved."

"Yeah."

I'm still thinking about him on the way to some fancy restaurant Jake's mother owns, about that way one corner of his mouth can curl up when the other stays completely still, those times his hair's really bent on torturing him and he calls me to help him, that day when he put blue food coloring in my conditioner, and I don't even know why all these stupid memories are coming up, but I have no control over them. Once again. 

 

 

 

_Ryan_

 

He knocks, and I calmly saunter over to the door, not tripping over anything, and pull it open with a, "Yes?"

At least, that's how I envisioned it. What really happens is he knocks, and I tumble down the stairs, trip over Carter, and yank the door open with a gasp of "Hey," and he just looks at me like I have some disease.

"Ryan, subdue yourself." Michael says, and even though he has sunglasses on, I know his eyes roll. 

He's carrying my grey Superdry hoodie, which was NOT cheap. I reach out and grab it, giving it a little pat to make sure it's okay. I always make sure my clothes have a comfortable and safe home environment.

Michael just barges into my house, tossing his duffel (from Louis, that classy fuck) onto the couch next to him. He drops down and buries his face in my pillow. "Don' wanna move."

"It's seven. Make me food." I respond. For a straight month, my mom's been in Cuba "getting in touch with her roots," so I've been living off of ramen and those microwaveable Trader Joe's thingies.

"You know I can't do that." Michael snorts, but I'm not about to fall for that. I know his stir-frying skills. 

Eventually, I end up tipping him off the side of the couch and dragging him into the kitchen. He curls up there on the floor and complains and gripes until Carter comes over and starts licking his face.

"Come on. Just one little omelet. Or that sauté thing your mom taught me."

"She didn't teach you, she cooked it and you watched and then you ate it."

"Same dif."

Michael somehow convinces me that going out to eat will be fine, but in order to get him back, I insist he get on my bike.

"Ry, bikes and I don't have a good relationship." Michael says, pouting so that his bottom lip pokes out. It's sort of adorable.

"Too bad. I ain't driving, my AC is busted." I say as I lug my skateboard out, and Michael sticks his tongue out, which is even more fucking adorable.

But, I shouldn't be having these kinds of thoughts about Michael. I shouldn't even be thinking about thinking those kinds of thoughts. Not even when Michael gets on my bike and his butt looks kind of like an upside-down heart. 

We sweat our way down three blocks of Gainesville heat until we reach the nearest restaurant, which is Rafaela's Italian Eatery.  
It also happens to be the place Michael and I had our last date. 

I know he remembers, and he knows I remember. So we just awkwardly dismount and go in, and just to make things worse, the waitress tells us to sit down at the table by the window, which is the exact place we sat when we had The Last One.

I flop down in the chair opposite Michael and that's also exactly the same, and I remember the ring that was in my jacket pocket that Michael couldn't possibly have known about when we got home later that night and we had our fight. I had to return it the next day and the lady at the Tiffany's counter gave me this "you asshole" look, and honestly, I felt like one.

I was ready. I think Michael wasn't, though, and that was what went wrong. It's not, like, a big tragedy to me, but I kind of get that looking-down-from-the-top-of-Everest feeling when I think about it. That, combined with the fact that Michael never even knew about what I was going to ask him. Oh well, though. It's passed.

Problem is, the Tiffany's woman didn't even let me return it, something about the warranty running out as an excuse, so it's just sitting at the bottom of my shirt drawer, buried under as many layers of fabric as I can find. It's a good incentive to do laundry, because every time I hit the bottom of the drawer, I see it and I get that feeling, and I wash as many clothes as I can to cover it up and escape what it does to me. 

Wow. I've let one person and one piece of jewelry I associate with said person screw up my laundry schedules. I must have sunk lower than I thought I did.

"Food." Michael reminds me, scrutinizing the menu. I roll my eyes and pick whatever I see first, which is some gross squid thing with the ink splattered all over it. When the waitress brings it over, I take one bite and fight my gag reflexes. Michael snorts over his spaghetti primavera.

"Just eat some of this." He says, looking up at me, and then, for some reason, he starts laughing.

"What?" I ask, frowning. "What?"

"Your face…" He gasps, pointing. 

I whip out my phone and sure enough, the squid ink is literally all over my cheek. "This is not even funny, I have no idea why you're laughing." I mutter, glaring at him. 

After Michael's done with his epileptic seizure, he takes his napkin and motions for me to lean in. "C'mere." I grimace and grumble, but Michael just tells me to shut up and he wipes the nasty shit off my face. 

I can't help myself. Michael's too close to me not to notice. My nose catches the light scent of his shampoo and his laundry and someone else's cologne, probably Jake's. 

Michael's touch is gone and I open my eyes, not realizing I closed them in the first place. "There."

I look up at him, just sitting in front of me with the last traces of a smile lingering on his mouth, and I want to kiss him.

I want to _kiss_ him.

This should not be happening, this should not be happening. 

But it is. 

"Ryan?" His voice cuts through the pea-soup fog that is my consciousness. "Wake up."

I say something real smart along the lines of "Buh?" and when my eyes focus, he's right there and the sight of him just intensifies my stupid want to kiss him and everything is going against the rules of relationships. I'm not supposed to want this, I'm not even sure if I'm _allowed_. But I do. 

"What? Huh?" I remember how to breathe and act like a normal human, and I suddenly have lost my appetite. "Was I spacing?"

"Maybe more like tripping." Michael says, regarding me suspiciously. "Am I right?"

"Nah. I quit that after the unicorn-eating-Aaron incident in Athens."

"You'd better be telling me the truth." Michael says, grinning. "Anyway, you done? Let's get back to your house."

"Yeah. Sure. Yeah. Uh-huh." I say dumbly. Michael pays because I forgot my wallet and we head outside, immediately wincing at the thick evening humidity.

We get halfway down the block before we're blasted with a wave of sound, and that's when I remember that today's Florida's annual Cuban Heritage Festival. "Shoot. Wide turn, MP."

"What? No, I love this song!" Michael cocks his head, then whoops and flips out the kickstand on my bike. "Ry, it's _Shakira_! You can't not love her."

Before I know what's happening, Michael's twenty feet away and gesturing for me to follow him into the crowd of Cubans. He sticks out like an idiot, at least a foot taller than most of the people there and ten shades paler. 

"You're not even Cuban, buttface." I mutter under my breath, but I prop my skateboard up next to the bike and head in after Michael.

He's super stoked about everything he sees, and I realize that maybe he had a little too much wine. For once, he's more hyper than I am. "Look, Ry! Moros y Cristianos!"

He pronounces it like "Mow rose eye christ eye aynose" and the vendor looks at him in mild disgust. No wonder he did French. The beat of Hips Don't Lie pounds in the speakers around the area, even though Shakira's Colombian. Cubans don't have much going for them in the music category. 

We wander around for I don't know how long, but it's actually fun. And it takes my mind off certain things for a little while longer.  
The people in charge announce that it's siesta hour, and the song is changed. Michael lets out a screech and squeezes my shoulder in the death grip I'm not even sure he's aware of. "Oh my GOD, it's Ricky MARTIN! Come on, Reez!"

Before I can say that I hate this song with a passion, Michael's grabbed my hands and is flailing around in that way of his that he calls dancing. He looks like a howler monkey that just drank a six-pack of Four Loko. But all the people around him don't even care, because they're Cuban and "getting into the spirit of things" is just what you do in that country. 

"SHE! WILL! WEAR! YOU! OUT! LIVIN' LA VIDA LOCA!" Michael yells happily, twirling around and attempting some sixties groove move. Those mojitos are apparently working themselves in. 

But I actually find that I'm enjoying myself, and this in turn makes me think back to the restaurant, which leads me to thinking about Michael as he dances around in front of me, holding my hands, which makes me remember how fucking _happy_ he can make me. That's really the effect he has on me, summed up in one word. And if he makes me happy, and if I'm happy when he's happy, then-

Well.

Revelations are supposed to come at the tops of mountains, or in misty rain forests, or in the middle of oceans. Not at sweaty Cuban pride festivals after two drinks and with Ricky Martin blaring in the background. 

_How long have I been in love with you,_ I think dazedly, and my body doesn't seem to be able to move itself around anymore. I'm vaguely aware that everything else is just kind of a blur, except for Michael. _And did I ever really stop?_  
Did I stop? Did it just fade away, and did it suddenly decide to come back now? Or was it there all along, and I just couldn't bring myself to face it?

Well, now I have no choice but to face it, because he's right there in front of me, and the red and pink lanterns hanging around are making him look fucking beautiful. He's smiling his eternally awkward smile for me, and that just drives deeper that rusty-knife feeling that you get when you realize you're still in love with the person you convinced yourself you wouldn't love again. 

But what do I do now? Do I kiss him? Do I just let him go, away from me and back to my replacement? Do I sprint away screaming?  
I don't do any of those things. Something that isn't me, that's never even made itself known before, just takes control. 

I wrap my arms around Michael and pull him in, because if he sees my face, I don't know what I'm going to do. 

"Um." He says, laughing. "What's up?"

"Nothing." I mutter, shutting my eyes. "I'm…" 

I hear him sigh in my ear, and his arms link around my neck. "I'm tired, too."

It's kinda freaky that he can just _tell_. "Mm-hm."

The song ends, but I just want to keep holding him, so I do. We sway back and forth to a beat inside our heads that somehow matches. People don't even give us a second glance. Even when the lights strung around the festival grounds switch off and the vendors start packing up their stuff, I don't know why we stay there, but we do. Michael doesn't say anything, and nor do I. If I open my mouth, everything's going to come out.

"Ry, you okay?" Michael says quietly. I half-expect him to pull away, but he doesn't.

"Yeah." I want him to let go of me, so I don't have to be the one to let go of him. But that's not going to happen, so I untangle us, and my entire body feels like it freezes over. "Come on, I got Platoon in my queue."

Michael grins. "You hate that movie."

"I got it so your ADD brain would have something to focus on, dope. And they wouldn't let me get Act of Valor, so." 

He scrubs his hand through my hair. "Well, I get to watch that and Moonrise Kingdom, then."

"I can't believe you actually like that film. There's like, these two kids making out and it's so awkward to watch."

"It reminds me of my youth."

"That's a bit creepy, so I'm gonna walk away now."

We get ourselves back to my house, slump down to the basement, and after Michael's finished sobbing his way through the end of the movie, I put on Moonrise Kingdom, and after Michael's finished sobbing his way through that one, I flip to Food Network and we watch Gordon Ramsay scream at people for a while. 

"What a culturally rich evening." Michael says, yawning, and I punch his shoulder. He makes a whiny noise. "Stop!"

"Alright, git yo ass upstairs." 

Michael disappears into the guest room after patting my head as a goodnight, and I just linger outside his door after he's closed it, feeling like a real loser.

I let out a sigh and slump into my room and onto my bed, and despite the fact that I'm so tired, I don't sleep.

 

 

 

_Michael_

 

"Hey." Jake says as soon as I step through the door, "How'd it go?"

"Good. We caught up on a lot of stuff."

"Cool."

After that, it's silence, and I find myself thinking, against my own will, that if Ryan were here, he'd fill that silence.

"Sorry, babe. I have to head right out, I got a new secretary candidate I have to interview." Jake says, adjusting his tie. He smiles and shrugs.

"Of course. I'll see you, then." I say quietly, and he leans in and kisses my cheek.

"Alright. I gotta get going. I love you."

I close my eyes for a second, because the way he said it, just in this flat monotone, really _gets_ to me for some reason. "I lo-" I start, but the door slams, and when I open it, he's speeding away in his BMW. 

It's not that I don't love him. Jake Anderson is smart, funny, charismatic, as people put it, and did I mention that he's fucking hot? With two t's?

It's just that something about him is too perfect, like if I say that I love him too much, that perfection will fall away and reveal something that's hideous. And that's what's kept me from getting too close.

I mean, I've already let him fuck me, and we said the words, and I'm so scared that he's going to propose to me soon. I don't even know what I'd say. But what I display is not always what I feel, a technique I've mastered after twelve years in front of the flashing NBC cameras. There's so much Jake doesn't know, and I have the feeling that there's so much I don't know, either.

I told Ryan I thought he might be The One, and I think he saw right through me, because only Ryan could just look at me and immediately know what's wrong, or what's right, or simply what is. 

Of course, I can't help comparing them. 

Jake, in all his blond, silk-tied, six-foot-five glory is so much a gentleman, it's sugary at times. Ryan, being his chestnut curled, bro-huggin', Weezy-luvin', eight-packed self is the exact opposite, but he somehow managed to charm me into spending an entire year in love with him.

Jake is handsome. Ryan is _devastatingly_ handsome, if I had to be brutally accurate. 

But Jake holds doors open for me, and he pulls out my chair, and he listens to me, while Ryan would rather see who could go around the revolving doors the most times without throwing up, pull my chair out from under me so that I landed smack on my ass, and talk _at_ me to try to fix things when all I wanted was to make him listen. 

That was the thing about Ryan. He thought he could just handle everything by being himself, or at least, that's how I see it.  
And Ryan is a _was_ now, and Jake's an _is_. 

The day we broke up was the second-worst of my life, or so I thought as I drove away from Gainesville bawling my eyes out and listening to What Hurts The Most. I thought I was being real dramatic, and that somehow, Ryan would find my hotel and beg at my feet for forgiveness. But two hours passed, and then three, and by the fourth it was clear to me that this strategy wasn't going to work for my benefit. I still laid in my smelly hotel bed and cursed Ryan with everything I could think of (and that included the Cruciatus, because when he finally broke down and read Harry Potter he said that he'd hate to die by that one) and declared the _worst_ day of my life to be the day we met, because that would lead far down the road to THE BITTER END, which was the second-worst. 

But at the same time, I was wishing and wishing and I might have said a prayer or two that he would find me, and let me live out my ABC Family Original dream where we'd kiss in the rain and he'd try to say he was sorry and I would breathlessly press our mouths together before he could even get the words out. Then we would go back into the hotel and have passionate, very noisy sex.

Basically, it took me four hours to realize that Ryan and I were not in love anymore and never would be again.

And even though I am pushing it away as hard as I can, which is fucking hard, this stupid fear will come back, where I'm falling back in love with Ryan, but he's not falling back in love with me.

I shouldn't be afraid of stupid tweenager stuff, and I'm not, but this, and the possibility of it, scares the hell out of me.

 

 

Jake comes back around six and he says he's going to take us out tonight, because he needs to de-stress. I put a smile on my face and agree, it's been a while since he really got to relax.

At dinner, it scares me again how much I have to fake it. 

I fake my smiles, because what Jake says doesn't actually make me that happy. I fake my laughs, because whatever it is isn't that funny. I fake that I like the sandwich, even though it cost thirty dollars and has pickles. I fake interest, which is hard for my ADD shit of an attention span to accomplish.

I never really noticed how fucking plastic I am around him before, and I don't know what caused me to suddenly be so aware of it.  
But I get through the time we spend together and when we stop at the red lights on the way home, Jake's hand moves to my thigh, and rubs steadily higher as we get closer to his townhouse.

"I want you so bad." Jake mutters in my ear the moment we step inside, sliding one arm around my waist. 

Normally, I'd be totally chill with this statement, but tonight, it's like someone just told me my mother has cancer. My throat closes on the air trapped in my trachea, and I feel something cold clamp down on the backs of my knees.

But, since I've faked tonight so far, I'm gonna have to fake this. 

"Just let me shower." I say, closing my eyes as Jake starts kissing down my neck. 

After we progress up the stairs, I can hear him taking off his clothes from behind the master bathroom door, so I should probably get a move on. I start to unbutton my shirt, and as I pull it over my head, I catch a whiff of someone that definitely isn't me. Or Jake, for that matter.

I've smelled it so many times before that I don't even have to think to know that it's Ryan.

And then some part of me takes over, the part that's pure instinct, and I bury my face in my shirt that Ryan's marked as his, like he used to mark me as his, and I feel like screaming and laughing at the same time, because what I've been so scared would happen is happening. 

 

 

 

_Ryan_

 

For some reason, Michael's back at my front door three days later.

"Hey." He says, not looking at me, and I can immediately tell something's off. 

I make dinner this time because I don't want to have another awkward episode at the place where we had our last date, and Michael eats it silently, still not looking at me.

"Okay, what is wrong with you." I say after watching him sullenly munch a heated-up burrito for ten minutes.

"I don't know, Doggy. Something's…" He sighs. "It's about, like, Jake."

"Uh." I have no idea how I'm supposed to respond to this.

"I mean, I _know_ he wants to get married, I can just, like, fucking see it in his face, I just…" Michael stares at me from across the table, and he looks so upset, I get sort of freaked out. 

"Well, what's wrong with that?"

"I…I…" Michael looks like he's trying to grab something that's just out of reach in his mind. "I don't know, I'm just not fucking ready…oh hell, I'm like some fourteen-year-old, Ryan- "

And he just shoots up out of the chair and hugs me, so spontaneously. All I can do is blink and breathe. 

"Um."

"Sorry, sorry, I think I must have had hormone injections when I was a kid, because my skin is a mess and my hair's a desert and-"

"It looks fine."

Michael studies me for a really long time, then he makes a choking sound and starts viciously petting Carter. Carter grunts and tries to run away, but Michael drops to his knees and pulls him into his lap. "You're lucky you're a dog. You don't have to deal with this shit." He says solemnly, rubbing Carter's ears. 

I chuckle under my breath, because this scene is so familiar to me, Michael talking to my dog like he's talking to me. Maybe that's why he calls me Doggy. "Come on, you sound like you need to just stop everything. And maybe SLEEP, your eyes look like fucking eggplants."

Michael glares at me. "I'm sleeping! I just…I…" I stare at him for a few seconds, then he rolls his eyes and holds out his hands. "Fine. Get me up."

Michael can't seem to make it to his room, so he just stumbles into mine and flops down on my bed.

"Leave." I tell him, even though that's the exact opposite of what I want him to do.

People always do that, say what they don't want someone to do in the hopes of getting them to do what they want. Usually I don't. If I want him to stay, I'll say it. But with Michael, I tend to do a lot of stuff I wouldn't normally.

"No." He says, burrowing in my sheets. I'm mentally reminded that they haven't been washed in half a year at best, and I cringe as Michael snuggles into my pillow. "This is comfortable."

Michael sits up and strips off his shirt, tosses it in the corner, then gets up and rummages around in my bottom drawer until he finds a pair of pajama pants. "Sorry, I didn't bring anything."

I make myself look away when he bends over to put them on. "'S fine."

When I look back, Michael's settling under the blankets, eyes already closing. "Nighty night. I don't care if you sleep here or not."  
"Seeing as it's _my_ room, I think that's kind of expected."

Michael doesn't answer me, and shit _is he really that tired_ , so I pad across from where I've been awkwardly standing in the doorway and strip down to just my boxers. 

I climb in next to him because I'm too lazy to find somewhere else to sleep and, yeah, it's been maybe a year since I just, like, laid down right next to him and went to sleep. That, I think, is the root of all relationships and shit like that: you have to be able to fall asleep together. If you can't, everything's doomed.

I want to believe that I'm painfully aware of Michael's breathing and the slight movements of his body and all that, but honestly, I'm not. Everything about him, even down to way he always curls up facing toward the middle of the bed, is so familiar that I can practically predict it.

I yawn once, my eyes slide closed, and I'm asleep. Michael's gone the next morning when I wake up.

 

 

 

_Michael_

 

"So that's it, then?"

"Babe, please, let me just try- "

"Try WHAT?!" I hear my voice raise. "You've already fucking tried enough, Jake. This isn't going to fucking work."

"No, it's not what you think…please, I don't even know what I was thinking. Please forgive me, Michael, I swear to fucking God that- "

"THAT WHAT?! That you'll somehow take back the fact that you FUCKED HIM?! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO EVEN TRUST YOU? I CAN'T TRUST YOU ANYMORE, CAN I? WHY WOULD I EVEN TRY?"

"Please, baby, calm- "

"AND DON'T YOU FUCKING CALL ME BABY AFTER THIS, YOU CHEATING ASSHOLE!"

"I can explain- "

"Shut up. Just shut up. I'm leaving, oh my god, I am fucking leaving, I can't even do this anymore. I can't even fucking believe you."

"Michael. I- "

"Just stop it, stop it, Jake, stop."

I slam the door and I don't look back as I drive off, fifteen minutes later. My stuff that was at Jake's house rattles around in the trunk.

He isn't worth crying for, but I know someone else who is.

 

 

 

_Ryan_

 

"Ryan, open up."

I look up from the rerun of Duck Dynasty, Carter mimicking me. Carter leaps off the couch and scratches at the front door, whining.

Michael knocks again, like he's not sure I heard him. "Ryan, open the door."

His voice sounds different, like he's in pain, but is happy because he's in pain. It's weird and so un-Michael that I really don't want to hear him sound like that again.

I open the door, and Michael steps through and kisses me.

Just like that.

It's like one moment the handle is turning and the next Michael's lips are pressed against mine, not soft or sweet, but something that tastes like desperation and want and everything mixed together at once.

It's fucking amazing, and it makes my chest hurt, so I kiss back, letting one of my arms circle his waist. Michael kicks the door closed behind him, our mouths still connected, and this move is so fucking sexy to me I can barely stand it, so I shove him against the wall and kiss harder. Michael makes a gasping sound and he pulls away.

"Maybe I shouldn't have done that." He breathes, eyes wide, and his mouth opens again like he wants to continue, but I shut him up by kissing him again.

I stare at him, and he stares back, and this is possibly the best and most awkward and most beautiful kiss I have ever had. But eventually, Michael's eyes slide closed at the same time as mine and he loops his arms around my neck, and then it's just kissing and darkness.

"Just…" Michael gasps, pulling away again after a few seconds. "Just…Ryan, come here, just…" He kisses me again, fingers moving up to thread in my hair. 

"I love you, I love you so much." Michael whispers against my mouth, and my heart actually, literally, physically, skips a beat.  
It's kind of like someone dipped an electric cable in water, drove one end into my chest, and the other into a socket. I guess that maybe that's how it's supposed to feel when someone says that after a year of not saying it. 

"I love you, too." I say, resting my forehead against his. "And I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For not saying it first, because I think I realized before you did."

"Oh." Michael breathes, and his lips are exactly the way I remembered them, so I kiss them again. "But I love you, so, you can just…" He lets out a small noise as I start sucking on his bottom lip, which is a hell of a lot more fun than it sounds. "Just shut up."

"Okay."

Michael makes another noise, and he starts tugging me toward the stairs. "Room."

I close my eyes, knowing where this is going. "You sure?"

"Abso-fuckin'-lutely."

I snort at this, and Michael snorts too, but then he's pushing open the door to my room and _how did we get up here so fast_ , and everything's kind of a blur after that, except I remember kissing him over and over again, like it's natural, like breathing. Then he's whispering that he loves me in my ear, and yeah, I love him, so I say it back, and suddenly I'm inside him and my name is slipping out of his mouth and everything is just fusing together until it won't break apart again. 

When it's done, I roll off of him, out of breath and gasping and my mind kind of blown. Michael's lying there out of breath and gasping and I guess I can assume his mind is blown. 

"Well." He says after five minutes of lying there. I close my eyes.

"How'd I do?"

Michael laughs. "How am I supposed to answer that."

"I'm serious. I don't wanna think I've lost my magic sparkle."

"You definitely haven't."

"Great."

"Ryan." Michael says, "I love you so much. You don't get it."

I roll my eyes. "Hell yeah you do."

After a moment's silence, I open my mouth again. "I love you too."

Michael makes a pleased sound and his fingers tangle with mine on top of the sheets.

I remember what's sitting in my shirt drawer and I decide to fucking _do_ it, right then, because even though this is so 2012 you only live once, and I'd rather live with Michael once than live without him forever.

"Are you gonna pull a Nicholas Sparks or something and suddenly die or contract a fatal disease right now, 'cause that would be a problem."

"Why?" Michael scoffs, squeezing my hand. "Aside from the fact that I'd be dead."

"Michael, I need to ask you something."

"What?"

I close my eyes and it tumbles out in a mess.

"If I asked you to marry me right now, just pretend I did, what would you say?"

There's a huge expanse of silence, and I tense up for a chuckle and a "No," then Michael shifts onto his side.

"Are you asking me now?"

I let out a breath. "Yeah, I am."

"Well, I'm gonna say…" Michael smiles.

Then he's leaning forward and kissing me, holding both sides of my face with his hands.

"You can figure out what that means." He murmurs when he pulls away.

Whenever someone says yes to something you ask them (it has to be a good thing, though), there's this little feeling you get where it kind of feels like something under your skin is inflating, especially at the top of your lungs if it's a _really_ good thing.

Imagine that, times a million times a hundred million times a billion times Google times infinity times the hugest number you can think of, then do it again.

That's me.

I remember saying something real intellectual like "Oh- uh- yeah- uh- do you mean-" and Michael rolling his eyes and kissing me again, then whispering, "Yes, dipshit, I'll marry you" in my ear, and this feeling of sunlight running through my veins and pumping into my chest, and me kissing him harder because I'm too in shock to do anything else.

"Okay, okay, shit, okay." I mutter when Michael's mouth leaves mine. "I have a fucking ring, I mean, dude, I'm like, prepared, you can't say I'm not."

"Oh, I wanna see this." Michael says, grinning. "How long have you been planning this?"

It just comes out. "A year."

Michael's eyes get huge as he realizes that my timing is completely wrong, because we broke up exactly one year ago.

"Wait, what- "

"Yeah, I thought you'd say that." I mutter, feeling my cheeks heat up. "I was planning it when we went on our last date, moron. I didn't want to tell you, because that would be a dick move."

Michael just stares at me for a few seconds, then he starts laughing, and that makes me laugh, and we just laugh together for a while. "That's the most fucked up thing I've ever heard. I am so fucking sorry."

"You'd better be, asshole." I say, slapping his butt. "And you're gonna pay for the other one."

"Can we just forget about that day? Please?"

"I'm willing if you are, that was hell for me."

"Thank you."

After that, we just lie there and talk for hours, about Jake, about us, about anything and everything.

It's one of the best nights of my life. I'm not going to lie.

Michael starts yawning at midnight, and I reach over and click off the light before he can say he isn't tired. He throws one leg over my hips and I kiss his forehead because I can, he's my fucking _fiancé_ , I can't even think about it anymore because I'll never go to sleep. 

"Hey, Ryan." He murmurs against my shoulder, and I make a noise in response, coasting one hand over his side.

"Yup."

"If you, you know, ever needed anyone to marry you before now, you could've just called me up."

I snort, pressing another kiss to his hair. "And why is that?"

"Well, even when I was with Jake, I think I still loved you."

"So if I just, like, called you, and say you were on a date with him, and I asked you to marry me, you would've said yes?"

"Of course. If you had asked me the moment we met, I would've said yes."

"God, Michael, I love you." I whisper, and he laughs, pressing closer.

"Yeah, I love you too, and I'm gonna marry you, so that's enough for one day, yeah? Let's get some sleep."

"Okay."

So we do, and it's hard at first, but it gets easier with time to focus on counting each other's breaths and not notice how our bodies touch at the awkwardest places, because maybe we weren't made to fit perfectly in each others' arms, but, since we can sleep together, we were made for each other, and I think that's what really matters in the end.


End file.
